


Diagram: Master's Weapon Repair Kit

by butt_muncher_seven



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Novirgrad is burning and Geralt is sad and Djikstra is large, PWP, Spoilers for Witcher 3: Now or Never, i get sad i want a large man to rail me, i'm a simple man with simple needs, that's about it really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:54:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22763548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butt_muncher_seven/pseuds/butt_muncher_seven
Summary: Djikstra knew men the way Geralt knew monsters; how to kill them, how to hunt them, what their motivations were, what they were going to do next. And in Geralt he saw a man about to do something incredibly rash and self-destructive. A normal man would've gone home, drunk himself stupid and got in a fist fight with the nearest person he could beat. Maybe he'd recover, maybe he'd burn his life down around him, because the chaos of such upheaval was worse than the certainty of reprisals, of consequences.It was the kind of thing a skilled spymaster knew how to counteract proactively. For a less valuable player he had less personal means of redress, but for Geralt…Geralt required a personal touch.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Sigismund Dijkstra
Comments: 21
Kudos: 127





	Diagram: Master's Weapon Repair Kit

Djikstra knew men the way Geralt knew monsters; how to kill them, how to hunt them, what their motivations were, what they were going to do next. And in Geralt he saw a man about to do something incredibly rash and self-destructive. A normal man would've gone home, drunk himself stupid and got in a fist fight with the nearest person he could beat. Maybe he'd recover, maybe he'd burn his life down around him, because the chaos of such upheaval was worse than the certainty of reprisals, of consequences.

It was the kind of thing a skilled spymaster knew how to counteract proactively. For a less valuable player he had less personal means of redress, but for Geralt…

Geralt required a personal touch.

Or maybe he was just getting soft. The night’s events had been disturbing to him too; his city was collapsing in on itself, purging its citizens to feel like it had any power over what was to come. Fear, ignorance, instability - a combination predictable mainly in its volatility. He could read the upcoming massacres in the movements of the crowds like a pellor read omens in the flight of birds. The devastation had only just begun.

So. He was acting to stop it. He, Sigismund Djikstra, a man whose brutality was  _ known _ , was  _ measured,  _ was  _ acknowledged _ , was Redania's best hope for peace. For  _ prosperity. _ For careful, measured growth, nursed and guided and poured over like the most valuable plant in the garden. For a fucking  _ fraction _ of the success he and Vizimir had worked for all those years.

And more than supply lines, more than whisper campaigns, more than contributions to the extensive network of connections and secrets and leverage points he had spent the last decade recovering - he needed heroes. He needed powerful actors who could tip the scales in his favour. And that meant, among others, Geralt of fucking Rivia. A man, in essentials, who was currently angrily pounding a rather expensive bottle of wine in the newest and sleaziest of his work rooms. Roche would be arriving in thirty minutes, exactly on schedule.

Geralt wasn't speaking, just pacing around the pleasure suite, furious and afraid. Behind them the city was aglow with the pyres of unlucky, mages and monsters and regular men, those acceptable casualties of mob justice. Djikstra mourned for his civilization; Geralt mourned for his friends. It was an important difference, but right now one that was easily overcome. They shared a common purpose.

But first -

"Geralt." He advanced on the witcher slowly but deliberately, telegraphing his approach clearly and calmly.  _ Like with horses _ , the way his commonborn father had taught him.  _ Prey animals respond to the nervousness you bring with you. Be calm, be decisive, be in control. Everyone just wants to know who is in control. _

And right now, that couldn't be Geralt. For all of their sakes. He laid a heavy hand on Geralt's shoulder, thumb resting firmly under his clavicle - giving his leverage, stability, without tripping panic by putting pressure on his throat. With the other hand he assertively plucked the bottle from Geralt's fist.

The witcher snarled but didn't retaliate, confirmation he didn't need.  _ Everyone just wants to know who is in control _ .

"I have a plan, Geralt, to end these massacres" "But right now - you're unsettled. Unbalanced. I need you at your best.  _ They _ need you at your best. Tris and Yennefer and Dandelion -" 

And there he'd stepped too far - Geralt's eyes grew wilder, overwhelmed. He needed out of his head. Back to the basics, the primal stuff. Djikstra stepped closer to make use of his imposing frame. He knew he was large, knew he dwarfed even large men like Geralt, knew the fear his body inspired. Knew the possibilities it implied.

He held the back of Geralt's skull with his other hand, firmly gripping his head, anchoring his fingers in his hair. And he could _ see  _ as Geralt's eyes glaze over. He was close enough to hear the small intake of breath passing over his wine-stained lips. He stepped in closer, watching that mouth soften as Geralt craned his head back to keep meeting his gaze. He was not a man accustomed to being smaller.  _ Good. _

"We're here in Novigrad's finest pleasure house and you're wound tighter than a garotte wire."

He made sure the witcher met his eyes. 

"Let me take care of you," he ordered.

He didn't miss the shudder than ran up Geralt's body. Djikstra loosed his grip on the witcher's hair just enough that Geralt could nod in assent.

_ Good _ .

Never releasing his hold on Geralt's head, he rolled a heavy gaze down the witcher's body. He slipped the hand from his shoulder and ran a thick finger under the neck of the witcher's shirt.

"Take your shirt off." He directed, letting a little of his arousal colour his eyes. It wasn't difficult; though not always to his taste, Geralt was an attractive man. Powerful. Commanding. Contrary.

Geralt glared back at him, the twist of his mouth a smile only insofar as it was sarcastic. His eyes still held the dead weight of sorrow in them, but that was alright. He'd need that emotion later.

Djikstra didn't repeat himself.  _ Repetition weakens a command _ . He didn't need to. Still glaring up at him, Geralt shrugged out of his jerkin, his doublet, his shirt. Good clean linen, well-cared for leather dropped onto the floor. The swords he placed carefully on the table beside him. He wouldn't be needing them, but Geralt would know where they were at all times tonight. Djikstra made a mental note not to touch them; this trust was a tenuous, temporary thing.

“Good lad,” He said seriously, not letting even a drop of condescension colour his voice. He pretended not to notice how Geralt’s chest rose with the praise. 

Djikstra’s hand slipped down the witcher’s front, over pale skin and scar tissue, still warm with the night’s exertions. How many men had Geralt fought through tonight? How many monsters? It didn’t matter, he supposed - it had been enough. The mages were clear to find safe haven where they may and Merigold would be at their head. It could have been her, tonight, letting Geralt rut until it didn’t matter that dozens of innocent people had died, were dying, because everything mattered less when you had someone to be in love with. But here they were.

He tugged at Geralt’s trousers. “These too.”

The witcher whipped them free of his belt and shoved them down his thighs, far enough that everything he’d need was available. He let Geralt keep his hose on. Dark hair ran down below his navel towards his filling cock, undeniably attractive. He hummed approvingly and took the witcher’s member in hand, tugged it casually to encourage its rise.

“This is what you brought me here for?” Geralt crossed his arms, eyebrows raised. “A tepid handjob?”

And there it was that spark of self-destruction Djikstra needed to burn out of him before it got him killed. 

“Always have to be sarcastic, don’t you. Lucky I’m not in a vengeful mood, else this would be a good time to repay you for my leg.” And Geralt, damn him, just looked eager. His shoulders bunched, ready, so ready for the fight.

“Turn around.” He said, letting his voice dip villainously low. Let it seem like a threat. Geralt obeyed.

He started with oiling his hand. It being the nicest room in the  _ Passiflora _ , there was hardly a shortage of intimate oils around. To keep Geralt from getting restless he pressed downwards on his neck, forcing him to bend forward until he grabbed the railing on the balcony in front of him. With his hand prepared, he probed between the witcher’s legs with a thick finger. Carefully, deliberately, he pressed his thumb into the witcher’s entrance. Geralt sucked his teeth and hissed, body tightening for a moment around the intrusion. Djikstra pressed further inwards, until the base of his hand met the witcher’s body and he could massage his perineum and balls with his other fingers. 

He used the leverage to rock his thumb into Geralt further, thrilling slightly as all that heat relaxed gradually around his hand. Every inch of Geralt’s body was honed and battle-hardened. He wasn’t a connoisseur of the human body, per se, he didn’t claim carnal experience with the prettiest things the kingdom had to offer, but Djikstra recognized beauty when it was before him. There was artistry in survival, in the hard-fought scars crossing the witcher’s powerful back. He had learned to savour the moments when a masterpiece crossed his path. And, if he was honest with himself, there was something deeply arousing in the way Geralt knew a dozen ways to kill him even as he rocked back onto Djikstra’s hand. He withdrew his thumb and replaced it with two fingers, thoroughly oiling the witcher’s entrance and insides.

“Just fucking get it in me, Djikstra.” Geralt complained. Djikstra was pleased with how breathless his otherwise demanding voice sounded.

“ _ Patience, _ Geralt - hasn’t Yennefer taught you how to wait?” It was part taunt, part reminder.  _ Remember who you’re here for _ , he said with his hands as he greased up his cock and slid it easily into the witcher’s body. 

When he rolled his hips once, testing the waters, Geralt exhaled like it was punched out of him.  _ Perfect _ . Djikstra started up a slow pace, taking care not to overwhelm the witcher beneath his hands. If he got to that place of panic, if he started to question Djikstra’s temporary hold over him, this would all be worse than useless. 

Fortunately, Geralt wanted this too. He could feel the witcher’s body softening beneath him, intentional surrender, and once he started grinding back into him Djikstra could really get going. The trick to fucking someone into a more reasonable frame of mind was to fuck the thoughts right out of them, really, and that required a goodly amount of stamina. He was happy to provide.

Bracing the witcher’s hips with one hand, the other still wound tight in his hair, Djikstra began to fuck him hard and fast. The rhythmic slapping of skin on skin, of his balls against Geralt’s ass, of his thighs against Geralt’s thighs, was almost hypnotic. Their heavy breathing drowned out the screams from a distant square until the world was just them and the room around them, until all thought was nearly chased from Djikstra’s own mind. He clenched his jaw and pulled himself back mentally.

Geralt reached down for his own cock and Djikstra caught his wrist, pinned it back on the balustrade. 

“Not yet.” He ground out, “You’re not ready.” Miracle of miracles, Geralt obeyed, gripping the railing so hard the wood creaked.  _ Everyone just wants to know who is in control _ .

He scratched blunt nails across the witcher's scalp, with restraint enough not to hurt, just to reward, and the witcher melted, shoulders soft and spine liquid, just for a moment, and the tiny part of Djikstra's heart still allowed such things  _ twisted _ about it. He repeated the gesture, massaged the witcher's scalp, and used the resulting liquidity in his body to press his advantage further. His other hand was still holding steady the witcher's waist; he dug his thumb into the witcher's back, turning his hips so his back arched further. It was a better angle to provide pleasure, a kind that was hard to give, a kind most men knew little of and,  _ there. _ He could tell he'd struck true when the witcher went paralysis-still, like a deer frozen before a predator, like he could coax pleasure forward with perfect stillness, scarcely allowing himself to breathe. He felt the small inhalations Geralt allowed himself to take, felt the witcher’s slow pulse around his cock.

This was where he wanted Geralt - stretching out that thought-cancelling feeling of skin against skin, of the rhythmic slap of their bodies driving to a pleasant  _ numbness _ , of building ecstacy drugging the soul. He could feel the fight draining out of Geralt, almost to a countdown, and fought to make it last. His ruined ankle  _ ached _ with the day's exertions, with the labour he was demanding of it now, but he gave himself no quarter. He could feel Geralt pushing back into his thrusts less, until he practically had to hold him in place to fuck him at all.  _ Good enough _ .

“Touch yourself,” He gritted out, finally allowing himself to chase his own pleasure. The witcher did, reaching a hand down to jerk himself off. Without his arms locked, hands in a death grip on the balustrade, he seemed to lose most of what was keeping him upright. Geralt braced himself against the on a single forearm instead, forehead sinking down to rest against it. The witcher’s breathing came in vocalized gasps, almost cries, undone.

He released his grip on the witcher’s hair to grab his hip tight in both hands. Even on Geralt, his hands came close to encircling his waist. All that muscle, all that viciousness, coiled tight beneath his hands - it sparked a small mote of awe in his chest. He thrust harder, pace reaching a certain  _ frenicity _ . Normally he liked things sweeter, gentler, but he couldn’t deny that the night’s events had rattled him as well. This was suitable, this brutal almost angry pace. And  _ there _ , he could feel Geralt’s hips stuttering, feel his core shake as he came, with a tangled, bitten-off groan. Djikstra surged into him, once, twice, again, practically hauling the witcher back against his body until  _ fuck  _ and  _ yes  _ and  _ there _ , and he came buried deep inside him. 

He pulled out with a sigh, holding Geralt’s hips steady until he was sure the witcher could stand on his own. Geralt didn’t rise from where he stood bent over, head resting on his forearm. Geralt laughed, breathless, a little desperate. It was hard not to run a hand down his back, to supply even a moment of tenderness to one of the worst nights he’d known in years, but. No. Djikstra knew better than to touch him again, not now, not when the gesture left so much to interpretation.

He’d chosen the wrong line of work for  _ tenderness _ . To have a hand in shaping the future, in growing his nation, that was enough. He’d done his part.

“You can clean up in there, if you’d like.” He gestured towards the lavatory portion of his suite of rooms. He hadn’t explored it in detail but _T_ __h_ e Passiflora _ knew its trade. 

The witcher went off easily, pulling his trousers up, grabbing his sword and effects, still a little bow-legged. Men like Geralt rarely wanted to look like they’d been fucked recently. Djikstra watched him go, his back a mass of scars shifting over thick muscle; a thing of beauty. When he saw Geralt again he would be armoured, in control, the moment between them gone. Likely they would not speak of this again, would not fuck again, although the trust he’d been granted wouldn’t disappear forever. Layers on layers, a thin patina of trust received and returned safely, and maybe it would serve him later. 

Or maybe not. Djikstra was comfortable with the gamble. 

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaand here's my second ultra rarepair contribution to a fandom. Shoutout to all my boys who wished there was a gay option in all the brothels.


End file.
